


things you don't joke about

by kaidariel (ksherambles)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Other, Terminal Illnesses, a brief appearance from whirl and swerve, crossposted and polished from tumblr, cyclonus is Bad at Feelings, how a conversation might have gone if these two morons spoke to each other, inspired by the preview to mtmte 17, tailgate is bad at telling the truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22671397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ksherambles/pseuds/kaidariel
Summary: Tailgate’s self-deprecation falls a bit flat, and things are said (or hinted at) that needed to be said. It was Cyclonus’ turn to reveal too much, anyway. Or how a deep(ish) conversation between Tailgate and Cyclonus might have gone if Cyclonus did words about feelings. This was written right after the preview for issue 17 came out.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate (Transformers)
Kudos: 33





	things you don't joke about

Cyclonus was angry.

It was all the way in the flier walked. Long, abrupt strides, not taking into account that Tailgate was doing an awkward half-run in order to keep up. The little bot hadn’t realized how much Cyclonus actually slowed down for him until he _wasn’t_.

Other bots scurried out of the way, shooting furtive glances at Cyclonus’ expression and slashed face as he approached, and staring at his back as soon as he passed. Tailgate scurried after, muttering apologies and pinging his roommate’s comms.

_**:Cyclonus. Cyclonus, wait, slow down, what is this about? Oh, for the love of –:** _

_Clang_

He stumbled right into Swerve.

“Oof,” said Swerve. “Sorry.” He jerked a finger over his shoulder at Cyclonus’ retreating back. “So what crawled up his exhaust –you okay, Tailgate?”

Tailgate was glowering after Cyclonus. That was a new one. Swerve hadn’t realized Tailgate was _capable_ of glowering. It was surprisingly impressive. “What’s wrong with _you_?”

“What _isn’t_ wrong with me?” said Tailgate, his optics beginning to flash erratically. “I’m a liar, I’m _dying_ , and he’s treating me like I’m diseased. Well, I am, but I’m not _contagious_.”

“What? You’re–” Swerve began

“And you know what? I was upset about it, and then I was sad, but now I’m kind of fed up! Excuse me.” He pushed past Swerve and started up into a run.

It was probably the last time he’d be able to run full-tilt before the cybercrosis took the motor functions and coordination that running needed, and he was spending it running after Cyclonus. Who was walking away from him, and what _had_ Cyclonus done to his face?

Tailgate reached the door of their habitation suite, punched in the door code, and let himself in. He leaned against it after it hissed shut behind him, his air vents cycling hard as he stared at his roommate’s back. Cyclonus’ tall profile, usually all angles, was silhouetted against the starlight coming from their window –the only light in the room. It was kind of blurry now. Maybe he was just imagining it. Or maybe he couldn’t see so well in the dark anymore.

“What the hell was that about?” Tailgate asked, without preamble. Cyclonus crossed his arms, and Tailgate could just imagine the frown he was giving the wall as he answered without turning.

“It wasn’t funny.”

“What?”

“What you said. It wasn’t _funny_.”

Tailgate’s shoulders went down in a huff. “I wasn’t joking. I only said that maybe Swerve’s roommate quest was coming to an end. You two could room together. It’d be a breeze after sharing with me, right?”

Cyclonus was silent for a moment before answering. “I’m not going to share a room with Swerve.”

“Chromedome, then? Unless it’s too soon.”

“No.”

“Atomizer?”

“ _Drop_ it, Tailgate.”

“ _No_ ,” said Tailgate, and the uncharacteristic response made Cyclonus turn around to look at him. “I won’t. I want to know what’s going on with you. Are you…” Tailgate looked away, fiddling with his fingers as he did. “Are you trying to run me off again? You’re acting like you did when we first met, and I know that was because I was lying about my past and being really clingy. I’m not lying to you anymore at least, but if I’m being clingy or you just don’t want to be around someone who’s dying, then _you_ –” here Tailgate jabbed a finger at Cyclonus “—need to take your own advice about honesty and tell me. I can, I don’t know…sleep in the medibay or something until—I mean, for a couple of days. Ratchet would be okay with that, and I could deal with people asking questions, I guess.”

Cyclonus let out a slow breath, and sat on the recharge slab closest to the window before rapping the space next to him with his claws. “Come sit.”

Tailgate managed to navigate the room with a minimal amount of knocking into things. Maybe he was just imagining it. Yeah, that was it.

“I told you once,” Cyclonus began, once Tailgate had settled himself next to him on the bed, his legs dangling awkwardly off the edge “that the factions in the war weren’t black and white, that the world didn’t work like that. I was too wrapped up in criticizing others to notice my own hypocrisy.”

“What are you saying?” Cyclonus had no patience for liars and hypocrites. Cyclonus was honest.

“I am saying that I treat _people_ as if they are black and white. I’m saying that I misjudged you. I could do much worse when it came to roommates.”

“That’s nice,” said Tailgate, after a moment. “Thanks.”

Cyclonus scowled. “Do you think I am going to lie to you because you’re dying? To ‘spare your feelings’? I wouldn’t insult you like that.”

“Oh,” said Tailgate. There was a pause. Cyclonus shifted uncomfortably, one hand clenching and unclenching. “You’re not understanding me.”

“You’re right, I’m not,” said Tailgate plaintively. “You never answered my questions, and I can’t figure out why you did that to your face.” He reached up and gingerly touched the edge of one of the gashes. Cyclonus caught his hand before it could explore further.

“Oh. Sorry,” said Tailgate. “Do they hurt?”

“Not unbearably.” He looked at Tailgate’s hand, small and blunt and broad in his long, sharp, narrow one, as if he had no idea what to do with it now that he had it. “Is it some Old Cybertronian upper-class thing that I don’t know about?”

“No,” said Cyclonus. “No. It is —when I heard—" He closed his mouth and started again. "I am neither an Autobot nor a Decepticon. I have no faction badge to wear in black for you.”

Tailgate inhaled sharply.

Cyclonus stood, releasing Tailgate’s hand. “The mission starts in an hour. You should rest.”

“Wait, Cyclonus, I—”

Cyclonus turned back. “Yes?”

Tailgate looked down at his hands. “Could you turn on the lights before you go? I, uh, can’t see my way around in the dark.

Cyclonus turned on the lights before slipping out of the room.

If his hand lingered on the door a moment or two longer than necessary, only someone looking for that would have noticed. And if Whirl pretended not to notice… Well. There were some things you just didn’t go out of your way to needle a person about. Not even Cyclonus.


End file.
